This this the middle daughter, Chocolate, doing her homework.
....a little closer.....
Do most parents let their children do homework in bloody shirts?
We also walked through WalMart with this shirt on while her hair was pinned up, showing the staples from her head gash. .
But I've seen a lot scarier things in our WalMart, so I'm sure we didn't raise any eyebrows.
One more scary item from the cabinet:
Why should you be frightened by allergy nasal spray for my two-year-old?
It carries a stern, somewhat disturbing reminder:
Those kinds of labels always concern me.
Do people actually get this mixed up?
Although, as I type this, I realize that I've almost put facial moisturizer on my toothbrush more than once. So I guess I'm the pot calling the kettle black. Or the crazy person calling the other crazy person crazy.
Or something like that.
The 'tween toothpaste in my bathroom was a little scary.
But not really that scary.
Not nearly as scary as what I found in my pantry last week:
Just reading that phrase, "skinless almonds," sends shivers up my spine.
What's even worse is that they're skinned and covered in sea salt. When I saw these on my shelf I wondered, "What did the little almonds do to deserve this?" Skinning the almonds seems like some archaic form of punishment. Salting them after skinning just adds insult to injury.
I admit, I did eat a few of the poor, denuded almonds, but then I put the bag back on the shelf. It just made me too sad.....I've always been a little sensitive like that.
PS -- I'm very thankful to have a pantry; I lived about 10 married years without one. And I'm thankful for a husband who is health concious about his snacks :-).
Today we had a little incident. A physical education incident. Actually, it was a not-paying-attention-to-what-we-were-doing-and-subsequently-gashing-our-head-open incident that happened to take place during physical education. The poor coach was left to mop up the mess, literally.
Anwyay, when I answered the phone this afternoon, the voice of the school teacher on the other end said something like, "Your daughter is ok. She's doing fine. She does have a gash. Most of the bleeding has stopped. May need a few stitches." Etc., etc.
So after ten minutes of calling, thinking, pausing, gathering items, making arrangements, and finding a babysitter, I drove Duke-style through midtown as quickly as I could to aid my little middle child, Chocolate.
To my relief, Chocolate was perched on the lap of her teacher, smiling and laughing and talking up a storm. But one look at the side of her head, and I knew she need first aid skills that exceeded those of her journalism-major mother.
We headed straight to the pediatrician's office, and without much ado, they said, "Yep. She needs staples," and, "Nope. We can't do those here. You need to go to the hospital. Not just any emergency room. Definitely go to the children's hospital."
I had been somewhat prepared for that verdict, and relayed the news to Chocolate, adding, "Your grandparents live close to the children's hospital. Maybe they can bring us dinner. That will be fun!"
We were pumped. We were locked in. We knew the drill (we've paid our fair share of visits to that hospital). And we were looking forward to a good, homemade dinner (or maybe that was just me).
I called my husband to fill him in and maker arrangements for the other children. He said, "Well. Do you have to go to the children's hospital?"
And I said, "Well. She has a gash on her head and her shirt is bloody. What are you suggesting?"
"Can't you just go to the public hospital?" he asked.
I thought about it. There is a big, enormous public hospital downtown which houses the regional trauma center, servicing gunshot wounds, stabbings, severe injuries sustained in car accidents. It treats who-knows-how-many people during all hours of the day and night. I'd never been to the public hospital before, only seen it from the interstate.
And I thought about the children's hospital with the sunny corridors, red wagons for patients, movies, children's library, stickers, child-sized equipment. Every visit, while undesired, had been very pleasant. And besides that, every person in that building was trained to deal with children and their parents.
Hmmmm....something wasn't making sense here.
Then I remembered.
Over the summer this same child, Chocolate, had an appendectomy at the children's hospital. It was a terrific experience, all things considered. The staff, from the janitors to the surgeons, were kind, friendly, and colorfully dressed. The food was plentiful and nutritious. The Kidzone was better than Chuck E. Cheese.
But then we started getting the bills. And if you're gonna dance, someone's gotta pay the fiddler......and the janitor, and the surgeon, and the people who run the Kidzone.
So somewhere between paying $30.00 for parking and $250 for eight doses of Ibuprofen, Trent reached his limit.
When you hear the word "saint," what comes to mind? Someone in a long robe, with an other-worldly glow? The apostle Peter? Mother Theresa? Your grandmother? A football player from New Orleans?
As you may know, the Bible uses the word "saint" simply to describe someone who has been sanctified by God (in other words, all Christians). So if the Lord has drawn you to himself through Christ, you are a saint. And you are likely surrounded by saints -- common, "everyday" people who also know the Lord.
We saints are not perfect. We struggle, and we fail, and then we press on. But we are ultimately and always covered by the One who was perfect, who never failed, and who pressed on to death to give us life in God, now and forever.
Being very thankful for all the saints I have known throughout the years, I would like to give you glimpses into some of their lives, starting here:
This is Miss Margie, my 3rd and 4th grade Sunday School teacher.
For as long as I can remember Miss Margie has had white hair, stood at 5'0" and weighed about 87 lbs soaking wet. And she has loved Jesus Christ with unparalleled passion.
As an eight and nine-year-old, I didn't understand Miss Margie's devotion. Barely bigger than her students, she stood every Sunday, pleading with us to learn the Bible, memorize scripture, and understand the wonder of the Lord's gift of salvation.
We would actually snicker a little every Easter as Miss Margie would tell the Resurrection story, tears streaming down her cheeks. We didn't understand. Why would a holiday full of chocolate, jelly beans and "good news" be sad?
Our spiritual dullness didn't faze Miss Margie. She endured the whispers, note-passing and other shenanigans. She told of the Lord's goodness, and she wept. She offered a five dollar prize out of her teacher's salary to anyone who would memorize the books of the Bible in order.
She longed for us to know the object of her longing.
When my husband and I dropped by for a visit one Saturday about eleven years ago, we had to ring the bell several times before Miss Margie came to the door. She had been in her bedroom, on her knees, communing with the Lord, and petitioning Him on behalf of others. Tears were fresh in her eyes.
Even on our last visit, when she no longer recognized us, Miss Margie recounted the day she met the Lord at a country alter at the age of 18 as the most wonderful day of her life.
After her conversion, Miss Margie went to be a missionary in the Appalachian Mountains, returning home to teach school, and remaining single. At 86, Miss Margie has lost her parents, a brother, and a sister. She has no husband, no children, and no job.
I have no doubt, though, that she revels every day in her role as the radiant bride of the Eternal Bridegroom.
Oh, to have a life, a heart, and a legacy as full as hers. I would count it a privilege.
(I know it's actually called venison. "Fried deer" is just so fun to say.)
Last night we had the privilege of hosing a "Beast Feast" at our home. My only job was to do some tidying up and then get the girls out of the house. No room for estrogen at this manly soiree.
I did manage to sneak a few photos, though.
Cinderell-o sweeping up. Trent is a wonderful cook and a pretty good cleaner. I wish I could hire him on a regular basis.
Trent's brother drove down to help with the pre-feast work. Thanks Uncle Bradley!
More importantly, Bradley recruited his friend Kyle to prepare and cook.
Kyle is like the Julia Child of wild game.
Thanks, Kyle! We couldn't have done it without you!
Mmmmmm.....quail wrapped in bacon.
A little closer look at that bacon......
Thanks for the quail and pheasant, Jim B.!
The venison in the buttermilk batter. So very Southern.
Thanks for the venison, Bo!
And what do we have here?
Venison stew. Nice and steamy.
And, yes, many moons ago we bought this table from Dollar General for $15. We're just keeping the price tag on it to add a touch of class to all of our get-togethers.
The tasty charred remains of an enormous wild hog shot by our friend Bo.
The men gathered.
They ate.
And they stood around with full bellies.
We girls made it back just in time to do a little chowing ourselves.
But I would be remiss not to mention the truly lovely accommodations we enjoyed during our little getaway. In keeping with the fair theme of "outdoorsy and agricultural," our temporary digs were quite an escape from our permanent metropolitan residence.
To begin with, while nearing our accommodation destination on Sunday night, we were all struck by the darkness. It was inky.
Where we live, the blackest (brownest? orangest?) nights our neighborhood are still so bright that you can only see the moon and four jets.
So we were excited to get away from the bright lights. But everyone was a little nervous after we exited the interstate (at night) and began traveling down a highway with no street lights at all. The fact that there were more than seven stars in the sky to enjoy was lost on us as we all huddled in our seats and waited for Freddy Krueger to run our car off the road.
But I have to admit, it was kind of exciting. (And I also have to admit that I have no idea if running our car off the road would be Freddy Krueger's modus operandi.....the scariest film I've been able to handle in the last 25 years may be Finding Nemo.)
Somehow our headlights cut through darkness enough to help us find our turn off the highway, and then follow directions that were essentially: “Go to the middle of nowhere and take a right.”
After we made that turn, we actually backtracked once, thinking, "This can't be right. This road is not paved. And it is very bumpy. Surely this is wrong. And it can't be good for our vehicle."
We are so city-fied.
It doesn't look nearly as sketchy in the daytime, but trust me. Take this road in the dark, and you'll know that things are lurking in the shadows.
Once we headed down the lane we were enveloped by the ethereal spookiness of marshes, live oaks, and more darkness. It was very Nancy Drew (or Eugenia Price.....bonus points if you know who that is). And we began to relish the natural setting and lack of artificial light (and/or lack of safety provided by that light......but as you can see, we came out with nary a scratch, so artificial light may be overrated after all).
And once we were settled in our little guest house (and the lights were on), we had time to enjoy a second change: the quiet. It was a good, thick, quiet.
No drunk girls were yelling at their boyfriends. No nocturnal students were playing cricket outside our bedroom window. No giant trucks were executing a 4am trash pick-up.
.
To be truthful, we kind of thrive on the energy of everything that happens on our city street, but getting away to the country was like letting our auditory nerves check into the Betty Ford Clinic for a couple of nights. And it was free.
We also enjoyed some angling therapy:
My big girls, Chocolate and Caramel, reeled in a small one through the morning mist.
Little Vanilla was still figuring out which rod suited her best :-).
Some agricultural therapy:
And some great reminders of the Lord and His goodness:
(This doorstop was beside the door which we were asked to keep closed so that rattlesnakes would not sneak into our bed, shower, etc. We kept that puppy closed tight for 48 hours.)
The fridge was covered with pictures of missionaries and other groups connected to the wonderful family with whom we stayed:
We loved the vintage velvety sofa.
Got some good snuggle time with Caramel, Chocolate, and Vanilla -- my three favorite flavors!
And you know how, if you stay in a hotel, you might get the USA Today or the NY Times delivered to your room? This is kind of the same thing:
Kudos to the delivery person. He/she is probably not scared of driving down dirt roads in the dark.
Our wonderful hosts have quite a vision for inviting ministries to use their guest house and property. We witnessed hospitality in action. I know that this came at no small sacrifice to them as they must have worked and saved for years to make this vision a reality. I love how they are using their retirement years to be a blessing to others.
Mr. and Mrs. S. are warm, welcoming folks.
And what visit to the country would be complete without this finale?:
One of our campus ministry directors often says, "Lovers Tell," as in, if you are crazy about something, you won't stop talking about it. When you're in love, you tell everyone you know, ad nauseam, about the object of your affection.
So, with whom do you think this person is "in love"?
I have to say, that's quite a tribute.....especially to be on a small, neutral-colored sedan. (And this photo is not off the internet; I parked in front of this little gem a couple of weeks ago.)
Having my obsession airbrushed on my automobile may be a little over the top for me, but what do I learn from this? (Besides the fact that the owner of the set of wheels above is not ashamed to be an MJ fan.)
I learn that I can't hide my true love What I'm thinking about, watching, meditating on, and spending my time and money on will, in various ways, be apparent to others as it spills out into my life.
Jesus puts it this way: "The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks." (Luke 6:45)
Jesus was always saying wise things like that.
For thought: If whatever you're most in love (obsessed/concerned) with were airbrushed onto your car, what would it be?
Trent's reading it right now. We often read in tandem. (Well....we sometimes read in tandem. Trent doesn't read as much fiction as I do, and I don't read as many books from the 16th century as he does. But once a month or so, we'll synchronize our literary selections.)
I hesitate to "review" a book in a way, because I think that anyone who puts in the screen time and the sitting-on-your-behind-for-hours time to write a book deserves a prize. Who am I to critique him? I can barely keep up with my email. (Down to 709 messages in my inbox right now.)
But a few thoughts:
1. David Platt was the keynote speaker at one of our conferences last year; he is a gifted speaker.
His three conference messages were pretty much a summation of the book (or vice versa -- not sure which came first). All that to say that the book is very readable. Almost like listening to the three talks.
2. The concept of the book, "Taking Your Faith Back from the American Dream," is encouraging. Platt just bluntly points out that the emporer's not wearing any clothes --
that much of 'Christianity' in America is rooted in materialism and achievement, and that not many people are doing anything about it.
3. It did strike me that the book should just be called Biblical, but I think Platt points that out as well. While what he's saying is important, it's not new. He exhorts Christians to read the Bible, know God, and lay down their lives for others. He's saying that Christians should actually live like Christians. It's not rocket surgery.
4. Platt takes to task a very particular audience -- a culture that is very affluent, traditionally Christian, and moral, but which does not know much about Christ or the Bible.
This subculture he's addressing seems to be older, and may be particular to the South. I am curious about how those outside of the South have received the book.
I do know that even though I live in the South, I've never quite been a part of the culture with which he often seems at odds (not by my design -- just by birth and marriage). Most of the Christian groups/churches I've been a part of were always the "break-away" kind of radical groups themselves. Most of the affluent, materialistic, "establishment" type groups I've been a part of never really claimed to be Christian.
5. Although I've never been a member of a "mega-church" with a "multi-million dollar campus" (that plays the "foil" to the Radical dream),
I totally relate with Platt on the pressure to "succeed" in ministry. This is America. Bigger is always better. Results are important. If a pastor or leader is not getting "results," then he/she is not a good fit, is otherwise gifted, or is just not "sharp" enough.
After 12 years of vocational ministry, I recognize easily the temptation to work in a way that gets more people in the door than in a way (which may be slower) that truly honors the Lord and cares about people. So, Amen to all of that, Brother Platt.
6. A pithy little section heading that was helpful to me was: "What Can We Spare?" or "What Will It Take?" Obviously, the former question is one that most often guides our giving and personal sacrifice. Platt challenges us, instead, to live, give, and sacrifice based on the latter question, "What will it take to see the
entire world reached for Christ?"
7. As with almost anything, it would be easy to misunderstand this book and make it another "To Do."
As in, "Maybe I'll really find true contentment in Christ if I sell my house and all my belongings and move to the Middle East as an undercover missionary." And that may be entirely true, if you have an intimate walk with the Lord and that is what He is asking of you.
However (and Platt alludes to this somewhat), "rescuing our faith from the American Dream" is not just as another good work. And just doing something radical is not going to be a magic bullet for our spiritual lives. Knowing the Lord and obeyng Him is pretty radical in itself. It's just that not many people are actually doing that -- and an entire culture of "surface Christianity" has resulted from merely aligning ourselves with the Christian camp without really counting the cost.
Overall Recommendation: Encouraging. Quick read. Primary audience is church "insiders" who are young in their faith or church leaders who have "lost [their] first love."
We just dragged our weary little bodies in from two nights of "rest and relaxation." This break including going to the fair. The big fair.
I look forward to writing more, later, but here are a couple (or ten) observations about the fair.
1. The fair, especially on "unlimited-ride wristband day" is a mass of humanity. If you don't like humanity, you have no business going to a fair on wristband day.
2. Never underestimate the importance of bringing wet wipes to the fair. Wet wipes are key to survival and thrival at the fair.
3. Fair workers are not the same as Disney World employees. I'm pretty sure they don't even know each other. (It's not a small world after all.)
4. If you frequent the symphony, ballet, or art museum in your home town, and at some point you need to go into hiding, go to the fair. Symphony patrons do not also patronize the fair. I promise.
5. If you have an older husband going to the fair with you, make sure he packs earplugs and Ibuprofen. In fact, you might want to go ahead and set him up with his own "fair fanny pack for older gentlemen." He'll thank you later.
6. If you need and adrenaline/cardiac rush, but you've been convinced by those "Say No to Meth" billboards that you shouldn't go there, just take your two-year-old and three other family members with you for a ride in an open-car ferris wheel with no seat belts. It will provide the same rush as the illicit drugs without that pesky prison time.
7. If you are highly concerned with feeding your family a nutritious meal at the fair, you may want to pair a foot-long, hand dipped corn dog with a candy-rolled caramel apple. Assuming there's milk in the caramel, you've stealthily covered all four food groups for a mere $12 per person.
8. If your safety-conscious husband proffers sunscreen multiple times before heading out for a 90-degree day at the fair, don't brush him off by claiming "my great-great-grandmother was a Pottawatomie Indian, so I don't need as much sunscreen as you" (hypothetically speaking, of course). Later in the day, your (hypothetical) red shoulders may remind you that your great-great-grandparents on the other side were full-blooded Germans.
9. If you go to a major state fair with all the agricultural exhibits, it will be very educational for your children. And there will be a lot of talk about "breeding." And your six-year-old may ask you to explain breeding, so you need to be straightforward. It's when horses get married. (Of course, the ceremony takes place in a barn, not in a church.)
10. If you feel spry and chipper upon your arrival at the fair around 10am, you may be tempted to poke a little fun at the people paying to use the foot massage machines. But you may not be laughing so much seven hours later:
(I'm not mad.....I'm just eating ice cream, so my mouth was occupied.)
Other fair memories:
The 4-H scarecrow contest was funny (and scary!).
Yes, this winning entry boasted a "Children of the Corn" theme. 4-H has sure changed a lot since I was a Cloverleaf!
This one gave us a chuckle.
We met the "National Honey Queen" and sampled several varieties of the sweet stuff. We discovered that our honey tastebuds are not very adventurous....we like the plain jane honey. But we had fun finding that out.
They're not nervous about their first big ride. They're just meditating.
Big girls.
Stroller break.
Funnel cake (eaten in honor of our friend, Davis).
